A Parting Gift
by athousandelegies
Summary: Crowley discovers he is going to lose Aziraphale forever - all that he has left of the angel is a mysterious ring. Content Warning: Death is a major subject of this fic.
1. Chapter 1

On the bank of a small lake in London, a man-shaped being — whose defense against the autumn chill consisted of a tartan jacket that clashed with his equally tartan scarf — glanced at his pocket-watch.

Fashionably late, as always, he mused to himself, shaking his head fondly.

At last a sleek black car pulled up some ways away, and its driver, sporting his usual suit and sunglasses, stepped lithely out.

"Sorry to keep you waiting, angel," Crowley said, not sounding sorry at all as he joined Aziraphale on the bench overlooking St. James's Park Lake. He examined the seat of the bench, making sure the wood was clean of bird droppings before he settled himself on it. "So. What did you invite me here for?"

"In a moment, in a moment," the angel said, waving the question away. "How are you doing, my dear?"

"Good, thanks," Crowley said, a note of confusion in his voice. Aziraphale knew why.

"You're wondering why I'm being so pleasant."

"Well…yeah."

Aziraphale hesitated only a moment — no use in beating around the bush. It was now or never. "Ever since that day, Crowley — when was it? A month ago now? — I've come to realize…how much I care for this world. How much I care for _you_."

The angel kept his gaze fixed out across the water. Its blue-green surface, dotted with ducks, shimmered with the red of the sun sinking down behind Buckingham Palace in the distance. From the corner of his eye, however, he watched the sequence of emotions that paraded across his companion's face: shock, joy, suspicion, replaced finally by a careful nonchalance.

"Angel…"

Aziraphale held up one hand to silence Crowley. "Just look at that sunset," he said serenely as the sun plunged down behind the Palace, quenching all color and leaving them in shadow. "Every evening, the same, and yet it never loses a drop of splendor, of wonder, of newness."

The demon swung his legs back and forth, his long fingers picking at a splinter in the bench's seat. "What are you trying —"

"My dear," Aziraphale interrupted, grabbing Crowley's hand to still its fidgeting, "there simply is not time. So keep quiet and listen: I am being decommissioned from Earth —"

" _What?_ " The demon's legs stopped dead in mid-swing, and his hand spasmed in Aziraphale's grip. "Az, for the love of…ach, just tell me you're joking, or you have several years at least, time to fix this —"

"I am being decommissioned," Aziraphale repeated, trying and failing to keep his heart in one piece as he observed the desperation in his companion's eyes, evident even from behind their darkened lenses. "After my, ahem, involvement in stopping the end of the world last month, my superiors have decided I could use some time in Heaven, to readjust to the ineffable plan, you see."

"Angel, _please_ —"

"And it is unlikely," Aziraphale plowed on, "that they will ever deem me fit to return here." He swallowed, the motion feeling like sawdust catching in his throat. He'd told himself he wouldn't cry, but the anguish in those golden eyes was tearing into him like a knife… "They are coming for me _tonight_ , and I need you to do something for me — oh, bugger." (His old swear-free had record been shot, well, to hell during the events of the Almost-Apocalypse.)

A little to the right of the sliver of moon hanging high overhead, a beam brighter than starlight blossomed across the inky sky. It extended downward, spilling across the black of night like a tear-track until it pierced the center of the lake.

Several more UFO sightings than normal would be called in that night, with witnesses ranting about tractor beams and aliens that glowed.

As the ducks scattered, shimmering shapes rolled down the beam of light like waterdrops down a stem, growing clearer and brighter as they reached the lake.

"Aziraphale, run!" Crowley cried, jumping to his feet and pulling the angel up with him. The sound of tearing fabric ripped through the air as the demon's wings unfurled. "I'll hold them off!"

"No, my dear," Aziraphale said gently, resisting the demon's efforts to push him away from the lake. He thrust his hand into his jacket pocket, pulling something out. "Listen, take this ring —"

"This is not the time for…whatever this is!" Crowley protested as Aziraphale slipped a ring onto the demon's finger — the one humans of this age considered proper for wedding bands, the angel realized wryly.

"Just wear it, Crowley, for me," Aziraphale said, watching as the closest of the celestial beings reached the surface of the water and began gliding across it towards them. Others followed close behind it. "Every day. Swear it!"

"Az, no, just run, I —"

"Swear it, damn you!" the angel shouted.

"Fine, but come on, we'll fight them together, we can win, we faced off Satan himself, rememb — Aziraphale!"

The nearest of the golden-glowing beings had wrapped what was not well-defined enough to be called a hand, but a tendril of its essence, around Aziraphale's wrist.

Crowley grabbed his angel's other hand and pulled, wrenching Aziraphale free.

"Crowley, stop, I don't want them hurting you!" But Crowley was attacking the heavenly host, throwing sloppy punches at their only partially-corporeal forms.

There was a crackle of energy, as of lightning, and the demon was flung backwards into some shrubs, wings folding at awkward angles below him.

"Crowley!" Aziraphale cried as his fellow angels closed in on him.

"It is time to come with us," a ringing voice emanated from one.

"I know, I know," Aziraphale snapped back, eyes fixed on Crowley's unmoving form. He allowed himself to be pulled backwards, over the water, into the beam of light…

As he passed from the physical world, he watched Crowley stir, rocketing to his feet and hurling himself across the lake.

"Aziraphale!" The demon's scream racked Aziraphale's soul just as it was wrenched loose of his corporeal form — drifting upward as nothing more than spiritual essence, he watched Crowley catch the suddenly lifeless body that Aziraphale had called his own, just before it hit the water.

 _Goodbye, old friend_ , he thought. If only he still had eyes, he would have caught the golden gaze that stared desperately up into the beam of light, would have willed Crowley to understand what the ring was for.

As Aziraphale and his abductors reached the top of the beam, its light flickered and dissolved, leaving Crowley waist-deep in water and clutching his counterpart's corpse to his chest, utterly alone.


	2. Chapter 2

_Content Warning: long and vivid descriptions of burial, death, mourning, etc.  
_

* * *

After Crowley had slogged through the lakebed's silt and pulled Aziraphale's corpse onto shore, he sat still as stone, not breathing, not blinking, hardly thinking. Every now and again humans — friends walking side by side and lovers hand in hand — strolled by without noticing him, their eyes sliding off his dripping form like water, as his angelic counterpart would have said, off a duck.

The stars and moon made their way across the sky above. The blushing east found the demon still slumped on the bank, corpse laid out beside him. As dawn's warm fingers brushed across him, his mind thawed, and he began to think again.

What was he doing here? If he was clinging to hope that Aziraphale was going to descend from the clouds any moment to reoccupy his body, he'd best throw that delusion away. The angel was gone, and he wasn't coming back, not ever.

First things first: what to do with the body?

He assumed the angel would prefer burial to cremation — more biblical that way. He didn't have it in him to drag the corpse to the nearest cemetery, though. Well, Aziraphale _was_ pretty fond of this park…

Crowley stood, feeling his sometimes-too-human joints protest the sudden movement after sitting still so long, limbs prickling like static as blood surged back into them.

The lake at St. James's Park gives the appearance of having been seized at either end by two giants who proceeded to pull at it until it became quite stretched out, like a blanket that has endured too many tug-of-wars between toddlers. When viewed from above, the lake might be said to be shaped almost like a wrench. This elongated body of water holds two islands, one on either end, and is crossed at its central, most narrow point by the tourist-adored Blue Bridge.

Crowley and the body he was hoisting onto his shoulders stood near this bridge now, and his destination was the eastern landmass, aptly named Duck Island after the park's abundance of waterfowl.

The blood of English monarchs tends to flow with a touch of eccentricity, and thus it was that one king in the 1600s decided that "Governor of Duck Island" was a position that was not only necessary, but enviable. In 1733, Queen Caroline appointed a poet to this station whose name was, unbelievably, Stephen Duck. This poet-turned-lord-of-the-waterfowl just happened to be a friend of Aziraphale's, and soon became friendly with Crowley as well, whom he caught stealing herbs from his island's garden one summer evening. Those afternoons lounging with Duck on Duck Island had been some of the first that the angel and demon had spent together in leisure, completely devoid of their usual excuses of conducting business.

Crowley thought it as good a place as any to lay Aziraphale's body to rest.

Flying the short distance to the island after reaching the bit of shore closest to it was an awkward affair. Taking Aziraphale from his shoulders and gripping the corpse under the armpits, Crowley towed his literal dead weight across the lake. He tried to keep the body from touching the water, but after a clumsy takeoff his wings struggled to gain height. A few moments later, he more or less crash-landed with his now-soaked load on Duck Island.

He paused a moment to catch his breath and count himself lucky that humans had not witnessed his less-than-graceful flight, since he was willing himself invisible to their eyes and there weren't that many at the park this early anyhow.

The island was actually in better condition these days than it had been all those years ago, when Aziraphale and Stephen Duck had conversed animatedly about poetry while Crowley wandered around the garden. While the island itself had always been well kept, the overabundance of birds with their feathers and droppings along with pollution thrown in from human visitors had kept the lake stagnant, stinking, and marsh-like. If Crowley was not mistaken, the whole landmass had actually been swept away and rebuilt once the water had been cleaned up. As it was, the air was much sweeter now that the flowers did not have to compete with the smell of sewage.

Crowley surveyed the place for a proper burial site, taking in the cottage that appeared to be more for display than living in now, the autumnal blooms, the ducks and pelicans (yes, pelicans: a pair of them had been introduced to the lake from Russia of all places in the 1600s) swimming placidly between the islet and the mainland.

He selected one of the rare spots of earth that wasn't a jumble of flowers and shrubbery and looked around for a shovel. Because he expected to find one, he did, leaning against the cottage wall nearest to him.

As the demon got to digging, the thought never occurred to him that he could just snap his fingers and behold a perfectly Aziraphale-sized grave spread out before him. If someone had suggested doing such a thing — dropping his best (his _only_ )friend into a ready-made hole and walking away without shedding a single bead of sweat or acquiring a coating of dirt himself—he would have stared blankly at them. It was beyond his comprehension.

Even though Crowley was not human, his muscles could experience fatigue if he didn't consciously stop them from doing so. A sheet of golden light crawled across the shadowed ground, creeping ever nearer to his plot of earth as the sun climbed up the eastern horizon, and Crowley's shoulders soon ached with the lower-and-lift of the shovel, his breaths coming ragged to his lungs. He had pulled his long hair back into a ponytail and removed his suit jacket before getting to work, and he soon stripped off his shirt as well, allowing sweat to roll off his back as his muscles strained and the hole he dug grew larger by increments.

A human could not have worked so diligently as he — the only break he took was to move Aziraphale's body into the shade when the sunlight had reached it. Brain carefully empty, Crowley settled into a rhythm of plunging his spade into the soil, lifting it up and over his shoulder and down into soil again, regular as a mechanical figure on an automaton clock.

The ring the angel had slipped on his finger last night — was it only last night? — clinked rhythmically against the wood of the shovel's handle.

Every now and then a duck ambled by, peered curiously into the pit, and then jumped back, squawking and flailing its wings, as a shovelful of dirt barely missed it.

The sun had passed its zenith and slipped downward into the west when Crowley clambered out of the hole, sweat-soaked and filthy. He wiped a muddy mixture of perspiration and dirt from his brow and looked down at his work, then over to the body.

A lump formed in his throat, but he pushed it down and marched towards Aziraphale's corpse, securing it under the armpits and half-dragging it across the grass and to the edge of the hole. Then, gentle as a mother laying her baby to rest in a crib, he lowered the body into the grave.

What was it humans did at this point in a funeral — say a few words? But what could a demon say at an angel's graveside — it wasn't as if he could bloody _pray_.

His knees buckled and he collapsed onto the earth with a sob that ripped from his throat like a page from a book. His frenzied eyes fell on Aziraphale, looking just as he had yesterday with his mess of dark curls framing a cherubically plump face and his glasses a little bit lopsided over his closed eyes. The angel's chaos of tartan was startlingly out of place among the soft brown soil.

Breathing harshly and choking back a scream, Crowley raised one hand and sliced it across the air. The dirt piled beside the open grave spilled into it, wave after wave of earth toppling onto the tartan, the messy curls, the plump cheeks.

When the grave was full, the demon got to his feet and grabbed the shovel in his now-blistered hands, patting down dirt. When he had smoothed the soil over, Crowley blinked and grass sprung up, completely concealing the fresh grave. No human would ever disturb the body — he willed it, and it would be so.

He turned from the grave just as the sun dipped behind Buckingham Palace, submerging the world in shadow. The demon shivered as his sweaty back and arms turned clammy, and pulled his shirt and jacket back on.

Crowley's body moved as if on autopilot, taking him across the lake to the mainland and onward to his Bentley. If a human had tried to leave it parked where he had for a full night and day, they would have returned to find its windshield plastered in tickets — but the Bentley had not a scrap of paper on it.

After climbing in to the driver's seat and slamming the door shut, Crowley sat for a long while. He had no idea where to go, what to do.

Soho, he decided at last. The bookshop.

He had no idea what he was looking for as he moved through the dusty shelves, picking up books and putting them down again, but he practically ransacked the front counter in his search.

On to the storeroom.

Crowley shoved away memories that assaulted his mind's eye as he crossed the threshold into the backroom. He did _not_ need to be thinking of all those long nights at that table there, guzzling wine like water and laughing or bickering with his angel. He did _not_ need to be thinking about how he would never again hear that shift in Aziraphale's tone that came when the angel was uttering something his superiors might consider blasphemous — that lowering of his voice, that undertone of excitement and glee — never again, never again.

"Where is it, angel?" Crowley roared, shocking himself as the silence splintered beneath his own voice. He realized what he was here for: a clue. Anything his counterpart might have left behind to point to a solution to this hell, a way to get him back.

But there was nothing.

The storeroom was small — three long strides carried Crowley to the expansive wine rack that took up most of the back wall — one swipe of his arm brought bottle after bottle crashing down, submerging the demon in a storm of shattering glass, of spattering wine.

For the second time that day, he found himself sinking to his knees. "Damn you, Aziraphale," he sobbed into the sea of wine like blood. "Damn you."

Eventually his sobs calmed, and he realized that he was fiddling unconsciously with the ring. Swiping at the tears still blurring his vision, he pulled it from his finger and held it close to his face, examining it in the dim lamplight.

The band was thick, but elegant, black as onyx, with minuscule runes dancing all along it. A single stone was set into to the onyx, a blue darker than sapphire that captivated the eye even more than lapis lazuli — Crowley did not recognize it.

As far as he could tell, it held no hidden power. A memento of the angel, but nothing more.

Rage surged up from his gut and into his heart, pumping hotly through his veins. Letting out a guttural shriek, he turned away from the ravaged wine racks towards the rest of the room, drew his arm back to hurl the ring as far as he could —

And found himself staring up at Aziraphale.

* * *

 _Author's Note_

Whew, writing that…took an emotional toll? But I think it turned out well! AND I learned a lot about some random island on a lake in London for this chapter. Most of my information comes from London Garden Trust's site, webpage "Duck Island Cottage"

And here's a link to a map of the lake if you're having trouble picturing it: search?q=st+james+park+map&tbm=isch&imgil=4nVcG7fnzx3HlM%253A%253BlNR10N9js-OMhM%253Bhttp%25253A%25252F% .com%25252Fmap-of%25252FSt-James-Park-Map&source=iu&pf=m&fir=4nVcG7fnzx3HlM%253A%252ClNR10N9js-OMhM%252C_&usg=_c7s84zUJfcnC7eimzONqArsKA0g%3D&biw=1173&bih=523&ved=0ahUKEwitrZvLsYrLAhWFHx4KHakRC0wQyjcIJg&ei=33rKVu3BJoW_eKmjrOAE#imgrc=4nVcG7fnzx3HlM%3A


	3. Chapter 3

Crowley had watched many a zombie movie in his day. He even considered himself something of an undead connoisseur (seeing as, from some points of view, he was in many ways "undead" himself). But nothing could have prepared him to see the same body he'd buried earlier that day standing in front of him.

Aziraphale seemed rather baffled himself, gawking around the storeroom as if he'd never seen it before and had no idea how he'd gotten there. His gaze scanned the dusty shelves, lowered to take in the mess of spilled wine and broken glass, and then fixed themselves on Crowley, half-kneeling on the sticky floor.

Crowley shook himself. _How_ didn't matter — the fact was his angel, the bloody genius, _had_ done it, had outwitted Heaven and made his way straight back to Crowley. The demon didn't waste another second; he lurched to his feet, dashed forward to gather the angel up in his arms…

And found himself embracing thin air.

The being before him was utterly insubstantial. Not a zombie after all, but a ghost.

Crowley stumbled back and slipped in spilled wine; he had to windmill his arms to keep his balance.

"Perhaps," a rusty voice croaked, causing Crowley to nearly lose his balance after all; Aziraphale — or rather, Aziraphale's _image_ — cleared his throat. "Perhaps," he tried again, voice slightly firmer, "we ought to clean up this mess?"

It was Aziraphale's voice, no doubt about it. Thinner than usual, fuzzy even, as if diluted by distance and weakened by a prolonged throat illness, but Aziraphale's nonetheless.

Keeping his eyes locked on the apparition, Crowley jerked one hand towards the blood-red pools and they vanished, as did the fragments of glass. "There," he said, the word coming out more harshly than he'd intended. "Now what the hel — _what_ are you?"

"I…I do not know," the angel's image replied. "My apologies if I startled you."

Crowley stared. Well, he had been staring before, afraid that if he blinked Aziraphale would disappear, but now he stared even harder. This being, whatever it was, hardly sounded like his angel.

He decided to come right out and ask. "Are you Aziraphale, or not?"

"I'm sorry, am I Azira-what?" the specter asked politely.

"Azira _phale_! Aziraphale," If he could have, Crowley would have shaken those ghostly shoulders. Here this being stood, outfitted in the same tumultuous tartan that the angel had worn only yesterday, wearing the same glasses and sporting the same unruly curls — and yet this _was not Aziraphale_.

"I'm sorry, that name doesn't ring a bell," came the polite response. Crowley turned away in disgust. "Wait...actually…"

The demon held his breath.

"Aziraphale," the being murmured slowly. "Yes, that _is_ me, isn't it. And you…why, you're Crowley!"

The demon turned back towards the figure, scarcely hoping to believe it.

"Yes, it is you! Oh my dear boy," he chuckled, a wide smile breaking over his face, "I cannot believe I didn't recognize you. If only…if only I could…" Aziraphale held up his two hands, studying his palms. He reached a hand towards the demon, who twitched backward but then held still.

"Be a dear and hold out your hand." Crowley obliged, extending one arm until his palm was nearly touching the ghost's — would have been touching it, were it not incorporeal as a mirage.

They stood palm to palm for nearly a minute before Crowley realized what was happening.

It is an odd sensation, feeling empty air gradually solidify under your touch. Reminiscent of holding your hand out over rising water and slowly letting the liquid engulf your skin. Soon, Crowley's palm could lean against his counterpart's — but tentatively, like pressing against a paper wall.

He waited for the hand to become fully solid beneath his fingertips, but minutes passed and it did not. Meanwhile, Aziraphale stared serenely, if somewhat distantly, at the demon from behind his crooked-as-ever spectacles.

A large part of Crowley suspected that unless he made a move, the angel would stand like this forever, transforming them into a bizarre tableaux frozen in the back of a dusty bookshop. So Crowley moved: he cleared his throat and lowered his arm.

"Yes yes, I expect you're right," the angel responded to what Crowley hadn't uttered; "this seems to be as solid as I'll get. Ah well," and suddenly, Aziraphale was wrapping Crowley in the hug the demon had failed to give several minutes beforehand.

Again, the sensation was an odd one: like being enveloped in paper, or gathering snow into your arms.

"Okay, that's enough," Crowley said after several moments, pulling away — but he made the motion gentle, still half-convinced that if he pushed too hard against the angel he would tear right through him.

"So, my dear…where in Heaven's name are we? This is a rather dismal place, is it not?"

Crowley gaped at his counterpart. "This is your _bookshop_ , angel. Your sphere of authority? Your pride and joy? Are you really saying you don't _remember?"_

Aziraphale turned and exited the storeroom. Crowley watched as he wandered around the bookshop's main room, looking small and lost among the towering shelves.

He picked up a book. The thick volume held firm in his grip for a good five seconds, then slipped through his fingers and thudded to the floor.

"Oops," he said sheepishly, glancing over at the demon leaning against the storeroom's threshold.

"Well," Crowley asked, "is anything familiar?"

"I…I wish I could say yes," the angel answered, a strained look coming to his face.

Crowley turned on his heel, back into the storeroom, where he sunk into a chair at the rickety table. He buried his face in his hands, blocking out the lamplight, struggling to keep his breathing steady.

He jumped at a sudden touch. It did not feel heavy enough to be a hand, more like a small bird that had come to perch on his shoulder. But he knew what it was.

"Are you all right?" The voice was small. Timid. Scared, even.

Crowley could not stop the fury that pulsed from his heart. He whirled on the angel — no, this imposter _pretending_ to be his angel — and bit out the words, " _All right_? You send me through agony, break my _heart_ , letting yourself get taken back to Heav — up to _Up There_ — forcing me to fucking _bury_ you — and then you have the nerve to come back, but it's _not_ you, not really, just some tortuous _shadow_ of you, and ask me if I'm _all right_?"

The shadow-angel did not so much as blink, regarding Crowley with eyes that were eerily, infuriatingly blank. "So…you are _not_ all right?"

The demon let out a roar, sending his chair flying backward as he lunged for the being at his side — who winked out of existence.

The chair clattered to the floor, loud in the sudden emptiness.


	4. Chapter 4

_CW: some more mourning is depicted, particularly the depressive stage of grief, but the descriptions are not as in-depth as the previous chapters so it's not so bad - things are going to start looking a little up fairly soon!_

* * *

A week passed without any further ghostly visits. After Aziraphale's phantom vanished, Crowley had walked out the bookshop and driven straight back to his flat, where he'd holed himself up without any real plans to leave it ever again.

He spent most of the time in bed, trying to sleep with little success. Usually he slept like a cat, out in a minute and only stirring if some external force awoke him, but now his rest was fitful.

Sometimes he would drift into consciousness with temporary amnesia. He'd stretch, turn to a more comfortable position with a vague intention of getting up soon so he could go visit Aziraphale — and the memory would flash into his mind like lightning. Dead. Dead and never ever coming back. Then he'd bury himself deeper in blankets and try desperately to slip back into oblivion.

The seventh night fell no differently than the others. Crowley did not have to go to bed because he was already in it. For a timeless period, he shifted between sleeping and waking like a door swinging open and shut in a haphazard breeze. At one point, however, his mind wandered into a half-conscious state and immediately sensed a change in the stale bedroom air.

His aura crackled — think of waves rippling out under your floating chair in a pool you'd thought you had to yourself — alerting him to a Presence infringing on its orbit. Brain still weighed down by sleep, Crowley slowly turned in bed. He had a hard job of convincing his eyelids to open, but at last he did, and he peered blearily at the stretch of mattress beside him.

The demon regarded his uninvited guest without an ounce of surprise. Who else would it have been but Aziraphale? The angel lay, eyes closed, in a nest of the blankets Crowley had kicked off in fitful dreams, wearing a baggy knit jumper and an infant's innocence on his face.

Crowley reached out sleep-heavy arms and gathered the angel close. Aziraphale did not open his eyes, but his lips curved just the tiniest bit upward as he nuzzled into Crowley's embrace. Even in his drowsy state the demon noted how his companion's cheek, pressed as it was into his neck, was not-quite-warm but not-quite-cold, and the curls brushing against Crowley's chin did not tickle, as if the being in his arms were composed of the same substance as dreams.

When Crowley again awoke, sun streaming through a crack in his blinds was poking his eyes and a vexed voice was calling his name.

" _CROWLEY. CROWLEY!"_

 _Shit_.

He looked first down at his own arms and then towards the rest of the mattress, but found no trace of his nighttime visitor. Crowley dragged himself from the bed and almost fell flat on his face when his foot got tangled in blankets. Willing his pajamas into a crisp suit, he stumbled only somewhat bedraggled into the living room, which was lit with a mixture of sunlight and the television's soft glow.

" _THERE YOU ARE, CROWLEY. WHERE HAVE YOU BEEN?"_

Crowley hesitated, gaping at the television — he would never get used to the voice of a Lord of Hell emanating from the sunny set of _The Golden Girls._ Today it was Dorothy, sandwiched between Blanche and Rose on their sofa and wrapped in a bright yellow robe, speaking in a voice that was decidedly more, well, _demonic_ than her usual tenor.

This was one of Crowley's favorite episodes, but now he could never watch it in the same way again. Trust Hell to ruin even television for him.

But who was the demon behind the wrinkled, white-haired mask? He recognized the voice, but couldn't quite place it…oh! Screwtape. Crowley relaxed a little. If he had to be speaking to one of his superiors, the wily old bureaucrat Screwtape was not so bad an option. They got along, the two of them — as well as a pair of demons could, that was. Shared similar theories on the art of temptation.

" _WELL?_ "

He'd taken too long to respond. "Uh…just preparing for a day of misdeeds, my lord."

Dorothy did not need to be infernally possessed to offer the withering glance she now threw at Crowley. " _I'M SURE. SO WHY IS IT_ ," Dorothy continued, as Rose dramatically but soundlessly blew her nose to the left of the old-woman-turned-demon, " _HELL HAS NOT RECEIVED ANY WORD OF YOUR DOINGS OF LATE?"_

Crowley considered what would happen if he told the truth: that he just wasn't feeling up to demonic wiles because his best friend in the world — you know, that pesky angel with a penchant for books? — was gone for good and he didn't think he would enjoy anything ever again. But Hell would probably view this development as a victory — Crowley might even find himself receiving a commendation for finally doing his Adversary in. His stomach churned at the thought.

Luckily, telling the truth is hardly expected of a demon. "I am undertaking several projects at the moment, and I've hit a little bump in a few of them," he said silkily. "But I assure you, my lord, I'll have much to report very soon."

" _YOU'D BEST SEE THAT YOU DO._ " Dorothy cast him a meaningful look while Blanche inspected her reflection in a hand-held mirror, observing the effects of the flu the three characters had all caught. " _I'VE ALWAYS LIKED YOU, CROWLEY. WE THINK ALIKE. THERE ARE DEMONS WHO DO NOT UNDERSTAND THE SUPERIORITY OF A GRADUAL SLOPE TO HELL. BUT YOU AND I? WE ARE ON THE SAME PAGE._ "

Crowley struggled to see where this was heading. "…I feel the same, my lord Screwtape."

" _SO I WANTED TO BE THE ONE TO TELL YOU,"_ Screwtape continued, " _THAT YOUR FATE HAS BEEN DECIDED_."

Crowley swallowed, clenching fists that were suddenly sweaty. "My fate?"

" _SURELY YOU HAVE NOT FORGOTTEN THE…EVENTS OF LAST MONTH?"_

"Oh." Had Aziraphale had this same conversation with his own superiors? Was Crowley about to be dragged back to Hell? "The events. Yes."

" _THERE HAS BEEN QUITE A DEBATE REGARDING YOU, CROWLEY. MANY DEMONS DEMANDED THAT YOU RETURN TO HELL FOR PUNISHMENT, YOU SEE. BUT OTHERS, MYSELF AT THEIR FOREFRONT, VOUCHED FOR YOU._ " Screwtape said. If he wanted to come across as considerate, Crowley mused, Rose would have been a better choice in vessel than Dorothy. " _DOES NOT CONTINUED LIFE ON EARTH, AFTER ALL, MEAN A CONTINUED STREAM OF DAMNED SOULS?_ " His voice became pensive. " _ESPECIALLY THESE DAYS, WHEN THE WORLD REALLY DOES SEEM TO BE — TO USE THE HUMAN PHRASE — GOING TO HELL. I FOR ONE LOOK FORWARD TO SEEING WHERE THIS NEW AGE TAKES US._ "

"…Right," Crowley answered, trying to keep up with the verbose demon's train of thought. "Thanks for sticking up for me," he added.

" _NOT AT ALL. BUT I TRUST YOU'LL LIVE UP TO THE CONFIDENCE I'VE DEMONSTRATED IN YOU._ "

"Of course, of course," Crowley said quickly.

" _IF YOU FAIL TO DO SO,_ " here warning crept into the elder demon's tone, sending shivers up Crowley's spine that felt very out of place when communicating with an old woman in a yellow bathrobe, _"UNDERSTAND THAT YOU_ WILL _BE RETURNED TO HELL AFTER ALL TO AWAIT YOUR SENTENCE, AND THAT I WILL BE THE FIRST TO ADVOCATE FOR YOUR ETERNAL TORMENT._ "

"Understood, my lord," Crowley choked out around the lump in his throat.

" _I AM SO GLAD WE HAD THIS TALK. I EXPECT A REPORT OF YOUR DEEDS ON MY DESK BY THE END OF THE WEEK._ "

"Oh, I can't believe it!" Rose broke into the conversation, unmuted at last as all demonic traces dissolved from the screen. "If modern science can come up with cinnamon dental floss, why can't they cure the flu?"

In no mood for _The Golden Girls'_ antics, Crowley clicked off the television and the old women with their jaunty robes and sunny surroundings vanished into blackness. He fought the urge to smash his fist through the screen.

Wreaking havoc among humans was the last thing Crowley wanted to do right now. But with his job on the line, he'd best get started: the only thing worse than Earth without Aziraphale was _Hell_ without Aziraphale.

* * *

 _Notes:_

 _Sorry I took a little longer than usual to post this chapter, but I was doing, ahem, very important research (i.e. watching tons of clips from_ The Golden Girls _because I'd never seen it before and since it's canon that Crowley loves it, I just had to include it). If you want to watch the episode I based this scene off of, just go to dailymotion's site and search "Golden Girls The Flu," it's ep 21 from season 1, and you'll find it!_

 _Also, if you're not familiar with CS Lewis's works the demon with whom Crowley communicates is based off the titular character of_ The Screwtape Letters _, which you can read in its entirety online if you like; just google it! Screwtape is a demon known for his love of subtlety, his gruffness, and his eloquence._


	5. Chapter 5

The Bentley cruised along more slowly than its usual car-chase-worthy speeds; for once its driver was in no rush to get where he was headed. The sleek interior was uncharacteristically quiet as well — there are few things that Freddie Mercury can't cure, but Crowley was deep in the grips of one of them.

"Why don't we put on one of those nice Tchaikovsky pieces?"

Tires screeched as the Bentley narrowly avoided colliding with a fire hydrant only because the hydrant had the good sense to leap out of the way.

"Aziraphale!" Crowley gasped, heart racing as he side-eyed the figure that had popped into existence in his passenger seat. "A little warning next time?"

"Hmm?" the angel said as the opening chords of Tchaikovsky's "I'm Going Slightly Mad" began to pulse through the vehicle.

More than just "slightly," Crowley thought: seeing the ghost of a dead angel everywhere certainly qualified him to claim _Hamlet_ -level madness.

"So, where are we off to?" his companion asked pleasantly.

"I'm going to cash in a favor I've been sitting on. Soon half of the electric lines in London will be down for at least a day," Crowley replied, trying to keep his emotions relaxed. If his brain was going to pretend like everything was all right, that Aziraphale was alive and well, he might as well play along. "Downstairs wants me to rack up some wiles, and you know how it is — they don't take no for an answer."

"Downstairs," the angel repeated blankly. "…Wiles?" Crowley glanced at his passenger, who was staring back at him with a face that was quickly phasing from confusion to bewilderment to horror. "You don't mean…"

"Unholy shit, Aziraphale," Crowley said, stomach plummeting faster than he'd once Fallen, long ago. "You forgot I'm a demon."

The angel-turned-ghost had gone a funny gray color, looking more washed out than ever. He moved his unblinking gaze from Crowley, looking carefully out the windshield ahead of him as he replied, in a falsely chipper tone, "Of course I didn't forget."

"Liar," the demon said, knuckles white around the steering wheel. "You assumed I was a bloody angel."

Aziraphale did not answer, leaving Freddie Mercury's croon to fill the silence.

"So tell me," Crowley said after a long moment, "what exactly _do_ you remember?"

"Well…I'm Aziraphale, and I'm an — _I_ am an angel, right?"

Crowley bit back a sarcastic reply at the imploring look in his companion's eyes. "Yes. _You're_ an angel."

"Right. Good. And you are Crowley. My _friend_." He paused, as if waiting for the demon to say something, perhaps express gratitude at this classification. When none came, he soldiered on: "We have lived a very long time, and spend most of these days in London, and…chocolate is a delightful human invention and I once had a fascinating encounter with Walt Whitman and…I collect snuffboxes, don't I?"

Crowley rolled his eyes behind his sunglasses. Aziraphale had forgotten his bookshop, forgotten that his best friend was also his Enemy — but of _course_ he hadn't forgotten his precious snuffboxes. "Is that really all you remember?"

Aziraphale kneaded his temples with his fists. "I am _sure_ there is more. There _must_ be more. I…" he let out a strangled cry. "I can't remember _anything_ , Crowley, Crowley help me, why can't I —"

As if suddenly losing all substance, the distraught being suddenly melted through the passenger's seat. Crowley slammed on the brakes. He scanned the stretch of road behind him in his rear-view mirror, but the angel was nowhere to be seen.

Willing his heart to stop pounding, Crowley stepped on the gas once again, steering wheel gripped tight.

" _Just very slightly mad!_

 _And there you have it!"_

* * *

Crowley slithered under the doorframe and popped back into his favorite shape. He rose from the floor and surveyed the darkened room, taking in the rows of empty tables and noting how their crisp white tablecloths looked naked without the rich tableware that bedecked them during restaurant hours. As he scanned towards the furthest edge of the room, his gaze snagged on a pair of eyes staring calmly back at him, glinting in the limited light — he let out a muffled shout and almost fell backwards.

"You have _got_ to stop _doing_ that."

"Doing what, dear?"

"Showing up without warning."

"Oh, I'm sorry," Aziraphale said, "but I'm not sure how to warn you. I'm still not sure what exactly I _am_."

"You and me both," Crowley said with a shake of his head.

Only two days had passed since the angel's last appearance, when he'd startled Crowley in the middle of a delicate operation (i.e., drawing facial hair on paintings in London's National Gallery; one famed portrait now possessed a mustache that curled fantastically upward at one end and which experts were at that very moment furiously debating how best to remove). It had been nearly four weeks since…since _it_ had happened, and Aziraphale's ghostly visits were taking place with increasing frequency.

"What have you got in there?" the apparition asked, head tilted to one side as he eyed the burlap sack in the demon's hands. The angle of the head, the quizzical glimmer in the angel's eyes, was so _Aziraphalean_ it made Crowley's heart ache. He had spent the better part of the past few weeks immersing himself in work, which turned out to be a useful distraction — but whenever the angel popped up Crowley did his best to remind himself that what he was seeing _was not real_ , that Aziraphale was dead and this was just some bizarre shadow of him.

But then the phantom would go and make little motions like that tilt of the head _,_ demonstrate quirks that were pure Aziraphale, and it was like the angel had never left…

"What's it look like, angel?" Crowley answered, interrupting his own thoughts. "It's my sack of toys — I'm Father Christmas, obviously."

The _real_ Aziraphale would have fired back some sardonic reply, but his ghost only stared blankly, unblinkingly at the demon. Fighting back a shudder, Crowley made his way past the empty tables and through the swinging door into the restaurant's kitchen, ignoring the figure that followed like a lost duckling behind him.

"I don't think you actually have toys in there."

" _Really_ , angel." Crowley uncinched the sack and pulled out a large bottle of pale brown liquid. Some years back, he'd made a friend on one of his excursions around the world who specialized in cultivating the hottest of peppers. They had bonded over the troubles and triumphs of raising various plants, and Crowley had traded some hand-harvested sunflower seeds in exchange for a couple bottles of ghost pepper extract.

Crowley opened and closed cabinet doors until he'd found the salad dressings. He poured roughly half of each bottle of vinaigrette down the sink, and grinned wickedly as he refilled them with ghost pepper extract.

"Dear, I really don't think you should be doing that…"

"Did you forget I'm a demon again?"

"Of course not," Aziraphale huffed, with a hint of his old fussiness.

"Then what's the problem?" Crowley asked as he emptied the last drops of extract into the final dressing bottle. "Are you planning on eating here or something?"

"Well. We could, if you like."

"Could what? Eat here?" Crowley recalled how books slipped through this new Aziraphale's hands, and how easily he lost substance and melted through chairs and floors. "Can you still eat?"

"I'm…not sure," the angel admitted.

"Well, I'll be here tomorrow, to make sure my plan goes, you know, as planned," Crowley said. "So if you want to come along, I suppose you can."

The angel beamed. "Excellent — it's a date."

 _Date?_

* * *

The restaurant did not open until noon the next day, and an hour before noon found Crowley standing before his bedroom mirror, tugging anxiously at his tie. Chiding himself, he mentally listed off reasons why he shouldn't be nervous: one, it was Aziraphale he'd be meeting for lunch, and it wasn't as if he had to impress the angel; two, it _wasn't_ _really_ Aziraphale he was meeting, just his ghostly half-presence; and three, there was no telling whether the angel would actually show — he materialized at seemingly random moments, and Crowley was not sure the angel had any control over when he appeared.

Even so, he could feel sweat pooling under his armpits the whole drive to the restaurant — until he willed it away, reminding his body impatiently that _demons don't sweat_.

Climbing from the Bentley at the stroke of noon, Crowley found a queue of people who had made their reservations months in advance to dine at what was one of the most esteemed restaurants in London (though not quite so esteemed as the Ritz, which Crowley could never bear to mess with too much). Queues meant nothing to the demon, who sauntered right past it and to a table reserved for a couple who would not make it to the restaurant that day, finding themselves tangled up in a nasty but non-fatal accident.

One by one the tables were filled by diners whose elegant jewels glittered together with the silverware in the sunlight streaming through high windows and candlelight radiating down from chandeliers. Crowley remained alone, the seat across from him empty.

He fidgeted with his cufflinks, the silverware, the ring he'd kept on his finger these past four weeks. He wanted the angel to show up before —

"Hello, dear. I hope I didn't keep you waiting."

"Oh!" The demon looked up to find Aziraphale observing him from across the table, looking out of place in the oversized sweater he'd been buried in amongst the finery of the other diners.

"Have you ordered yet?"

"No, I was waiting for you," Crowley replied.

"How sweet," Aziraphale smiled.

After they had placed their orders, Crowley could not keep focused on his dining companion, his gaze straying every few seconds to the kitchen door, waiting for the first of the salads to emerge. Aziraphale did not seem to mind the demon's inattention, absorbing himself in trying to lift his spoon, which kept slipping through his only semi-substantial fingers.

He did not have long to wait: the kitchen door soon swung open and a line of waiters streamed out, bearing silver trays laden with exquisitely arranged salad, topped with hypnotic swirls of vinaigrette.

The reactions came in bursts, like fireworks set off in sequence: horrified gasps and retching sounds emanated from one table, then the next, as tongues expecting the bittersweet tang of the restaurant's famous vinaigrette instead met overwhelming heat.

Crowley watched in delight as lips became twisted O's and eyes widened in shock. Diners reached for glasses only to find that their drinks had, impossibly, frozen over, preventing them from slaking the spice burning their mouths.

Of course, there were a few diners who possessed a hardier palate than the average blandness-loving English citizen; these people chewed thoughtfully on their lettuce, commenting on the unique flavor of the dressing.

Before Crowley could stop him, Aziraphale dug in to his own salad. "Hmm." The angel scrunched up his eyes. "I can _almost_ taste this — do you have any more of that pepper juice on you?"


	6. Chapter 6

"Crowley? Crowley. I have another theory."

The demon groaned and aimed a pillow at his counterpart's face; it flew right through him and flopped to the floor on the other side.

"Why do your 'theories' always have to come when I've just hit REM sleep?" Crowley complained, drawing the blanket up over his face. It had been two months since what the demon now thought of as _That Day_ , and the angel frequently popped up just to propose ideas regarding what he might be.

"Oh! My apologies," Aziraphale said. "Go on back to sleep — I can wait."

"No, no, you might as well get it out now," Crowley sighed, poking his head out from his blanket burrow. He didn't much fancy the idea of the angel staring at him, motionless as a paused video, until the demon woke up again.

"Okay." Aziraphale leaned over Crowley's face, which was only half-visible over the sheets. "Are you listening?"

"Yes." Crowley closed his still sleep-heavy eyes. If he concentrated, he could almost feel the breaths of the old Aziraphale — _his_ Aziraphale — warming his cheeks, the sparks that crackled across his lips whenever they neared the angel's.

"Okay. I think I may simply be…a memory."

Crowley sat up in bed, Aziraphale pulling back to allow him to do so. "We've been over that one, Az," he said, rubbing sleep from his eyes. "If you were just a memory, humans wouldn't be able to see you." _Plus_ , he added to himself, _you would be more…_ you _._

"Yes, but see, you are a _demon_ , Crowley!" Aziraphale said excitedly.

"I know, we've already established that one."

"So, if you're a demon, and thus a possessor of supernatural power," the angel continued, "then what is for you a memory might well manifest itself into something solid enough for humans to perceive."

"I don't know if _solid_ is the word I'd use," Crowley commented, poking his finger right into the apparition's side.

"Oh, stop that," Aziraphale complained, taking a hold of the demon's hand and pulling it out of his side. He did not let go, squeezing Crowley's fingers with his own feather-light ones as he continued. "You understand what I mean."

"I just don't think you're a memory, Aziraphale," Crowley said, squeezing back. It was rather like pressing down on a balloon — he felt the skin give slightly under his fingers and dared not squeeze too hard, for fear it would pop. "You don't seem to be controlled by my own mind: you do things I don't expect you to do, you show up unbidden, you're missing parts of _your_ memory that my memory would be able to supply you —"

"Oh, all right," the angel huffed. "So what in heaven's name am I?"

"We'll figure it out," Crowley said, a yawn breaking into his words. "For now, I'm going back to sleep. …Sleep with me?" he added, shyly.

"Of course, dear."

As they nestled together, Crowley holding the angel to his chest like a large, plump teddy bear, the demon closed his eyes again with the bittersweet thought: this was _certainly_ something the real Aziraphale would never have done, no matter how desperately Crowley might have wished for it.

* * *

Crowley was not surprised to find his arms empty the next morning: the angel generally evaporated some time during the night.

Slipping on his most worn suit, one he didn't mind getting dirty, he padded into the living room area of his flat, where pots and vases met him in a riot of color. Marigolds and gardenias, ferns and bonsais and violets, he could make any plant thrive. And by _make_ , the demon meant _insult and threaten into blooming beautifully._

Crowley marched up in down, hands behind his back, before the rows of plants gathered in front of the flat's two widest windows.

"Let's see which of you haven't made the cut today," the demon drawled, as fear radiated off of gold-green leaves and shivered across petals.

"You!" he shouted suddenly, jabbing one finger at a potted daylily, the blossoms of which seemed to shrink under his gaze. "You thought I wouldn't notice that one of your buds never opened, eh? Well, I did." He gathered the pot in his arms. " _And you!"_ He roared at the row of violets in their long, narrow pot. "You call yourselves _violets_? I told you to be vibrant," he tsked. "I gave you a chance — no! multiple chances! — to get your act together, but I have run out of mercy now.

"Let this be a lesson to the rest of you," he warned the rest of the plants as he scooped up the violets as well, "to do better this week. I expect brighter colors, fuller blooms, greener leaves! So say goodbye to your friends here, and just hope you don't join them soon."

He turned on his heel and marched out of the flat, leaving behind fauna that had launched itself into a frenzy of photosynthesis whose speeds would astonish botanists.

When he'd gotten down into the street, he opened the Bentley's passenger door and placed the flowerpots down in the seat.

"Let's get you buckled up," he murmured to violets and daylilies whose auras shifted from ones of terror to bewilderment (you might think that plants can't possibly possess the same range of emotion that humans do, and you'd be right: theirs is much broader). "I have a special plan for you."

He hadn't visited St. James's Park since _That Day_. It was largely unchanged, though autumn had progressed and a swirl of orange leaves coated the earth, leaving branches bare, and much of the park's fowl had flown off in search of warmer climes.

Crowley stood now on Duck Island, daylilies and violets in tow, looking down upon the grave he'd dug two months before. The soil that covered Aziraphale's corporeal remains appeared no different from the ground around it, but it might well have been painted over with a red X, so easy it was for the demon to locate.

Using the trowel he'd brought, Crowley dug pockets into the earth. He savored the feel of the soil between his fingers, made warm by the sun even in the near-winter chill, and found himself whistling as he worked.

"In you get," he murmured to the violets as he uprooted them, one by one, from their pot and nestled them into the dirt. "Your new home."

The relief that rose up from the flowers as he patted soil around their stems warmed Crowley's spirit like sunshine.

"I guess I'm not so tough after all," Crowley said to them, "but don't tell anyone or I'll come back and curse you with a blight like no houseplant has ever seen before."

Crowley stood back to survey his handiwork, admiring how the daylilies' orange petals glowed on their tall stems, the softer bluish-purple of the violets peeping out from below them. He wiped his hands off on his shirt, not caring about appearances for once, and made sure to get all the dirt from the crevices of the runes on the ring Aziraphale had given him.

"Are those for me?" The demon gave a start and dropped his trowel as a light hand clapped down on his shoulder. "Oh Crowley, I love them!"

 _They aren't for_ you _,_ Crowley wanted to retort, _they're for_ him, _in the ground_. But he hated to see Aziraphale's hurt expression, even on this false Aziraphale's face.

"I'm glad you like them, angel," he said instead, basking in the delight in his companion's eyes.

"Now let's go to my bookshop, dear, you promised we could!"

The angel was convinced that if he could just read enough books, he would discover a clue as to what he was. _And if we can figure out what this Aziraphale is, perhaps…_ No. Crowley refused to let himself hope.

 _Your Aziraphale is gone,_ he told himself. _He is not coming back._ He was stuck with this shadow of Aziraphale — which was better than nothing, of course, he reminded himself as the angel opened his car door for him, once they'd returned to shore.

Definitely better than nothing


	7. Chapter 7

"I still don't see why we have to do this _outside_ ," Crowley complained. He wrapped his scarf tighter around his neck as light snowflakes drifted down from a sky that glowed white as a scooped-out oyster shell.

Another month had sauntered past, mostly uneventfully — Crowley busied himself with work, earning him much praise (as far as praise went from Hellish bosses), the ghostly version of Aziraphale insisted on spending most of their evenings in the bookshop looking for answers regarding his existence, and winter had crept up on autumn and encased it in a sheath of frost. The two of them sat now on a bench on Duck Island, not far off from the flowers that bloomed gaily over Aziraphale's grave — protected from winter's grip by the grace of the angelic form beneath them — and out of sight of humans on shore.

"Because," Aziraphale explained without looking up from his book, "I quite enjoy this weather — I can _almost_ feel the chill in the air. Now hush please, dear, I think I am actually on to something here."

The angel leaned over his book, dark curls brushing against the page. A snowflake alighted upon his long eyelashes, glittering mesmericaly behind his glasses. Since he never blinked, it remained poised there, unmelting.

Frustration and grief had lodged themselves in Crowley's heart after _That Day_ three months back, a deep pool ever threatening to rise up into an all-consuming tsunami. For whatever reason, he felt the darkness stirring and swelling now, unstoppable as high tide.

" 'Onto something,'" he mocked his companion. "Of course, you're always _on to something_ — when are you going to accept that we are _never_ going to know what the hell you are —

that we are _never_ going to get the _real_ you back?"

Crowley didn't realize he'd stood up until he found himself glaring down at the angel — or rather, the spectral mockery of his angel — who stared, puzzled, up at him.

The demon could not bear that unblinking gaze — was sick to _death_ of that damned unblinking gaze. He tore his eyes away, glared out at the lake, which was crusted over with ice so thin that even ducks could scarcely walk on it without breaking through it. Agitated, needing something to do with his hands, he found himself fiddling with the ring on his finger.

"Crowley, listen, please," the ghost-angel spoke weakly behind him, "I _really_ think this book is giving me some of the answers I need to crack this —"

"Shut up!" Crowley shouted, voice bouncing along the stretch of ice like a skipping stone. He did not turn around to look at the being. "Shut the hell up, _Aziraphale_. You…you _left me_." His voice broke. "You left me alone with this, this _thing_ , this _shell_ of you, this blessed _hope_ that is never going to amount to anything, left me with nothing but it and this bloody _ring_ and I cannot _take this_ , Aziraphale, I cannot —"

"Wait, Crowley," the phantom interrupted again; the ghost-angel had gotten up from the bench to stand beside him, "are you saying _I_ — er, he — _Aziraphale —_ gave you that ring?"

"And a bloody use it's been," the demon growled. He yanked the thick black band from his finger. "Fuck you, Aziraphale!" he roared across the lake as all the rage of grief flooded over him. "Fuck you and fuck this!"

The lake remained impassive, solid ice. Humans on the shore were staring. A scream ripped through his throat, and Crowley drew back his arm to hurl the ring through the air.

"No! Crowley no —" The figure at his side reached for Crowley's arm too late. The ring sailed across the air and far out onto the ice — and, as soon as it had left the demon's hand, Aziraphale flickered out.

Shock coursed through Crowley, piercing through his grief and rage like a dagger through a stream. The ring. _Of course_ , the ring.

He had to get it, had to get Aziraphale, even the shadow of him, back. Without a moment's thought, he ran out onto the ice — and broke straight through it.

Hissing as icy water seeped through his pant legs and into his bones, he backpedaled onto the shore. At least it hadn't been deep, but, _idiot_ , he berated himself, _use your bloody_ wings _._

Wings tore through his shirt ( _another one bites the dust_ ) and he took off through the air. The snowflakes were falling harder now, getting in the way of his panicked scan for a glint of black or blue.

 _There_. The ring's blue stone seemed to wink back at him from its onyx band. Crowley fought back tears as relief flooded through him. It wasn't lost. He hadn't lost it. He reached down to scoop it up as he flew by — and misjudged the distance. His fingers crashed through the ice, sending the ring plunging down with it.

"No!" he clenched his hand into a fist and pulled it up. Opened his palm, desperation making his heart pump so fast it hurt. Shards of quickly-melting ice. And…the ring. He'd managed to grasp it after all, before it could sink down into the belly of the lake.

Crowley stumbled to shore and folded his wings away, willing his sopping legs and arm dry. Hearing a scream, he looked up.

Oh, right. The humans.

Innocent park-goers gaped at him as if he'd turned into his maggot-form. He sighed and waved an arm towards them, wiping all memory of the past five minutes clean.

(Give it a decade or two, and he would have had the cameras on a dozen smartphones to deal with as well, but for now, erasing evidence was a simple matter.)

Shivering with cold and adrenaline, Crowley slipped the ring onto his finger.

He understood so much more now, yet so much remained veiled. The vision of Aziraphale was held within the ring — but why had the _real_ Aziraphale left such a thing with Crowley?

He remembered the book Aziraphale had been reading — first things first, he'd best go fetch that. Making sure to will himself more or less invisible to human eyes this time, Crowley took off once again, back to Duck Pond.

The angel had said the book might hold some answers…Crowley settled down on the bench, ignoring the bite of the cold and the snowflakes whirling around him to flip through the pages.

"Crowley."

He looked up. "Az. Hey, I'm sorry I said —"

"It's all right, dear," the ghost-angel silenced him. "I'm glad you got the ring back. Because Crowley," he continued, unblinking eyes sparkling brighter than Crowley had seen them, "I know how to get Aziraphale back. … _Your_ Aziraphale."

The demon fidgeted on the bench. "Hey, look, you are —"

Again, the angel held up a hand. "I _know_ I'm not the real Aziraphale. …Or rather, I am not the _full_ Aziraphale. I know…" he lifted his carefully blank gaze towards the pearl-white sky, "I am not enough for you. I…I wish I was, but I know I never will be. And that is all right."

Crowley stood from the bench, placing his arm on the apparition's back. "You are wonderful, Az. These past three months…I don't know how I would have survived them without you. But…" he glanced towards the grave with its orange and purple flowers, blooming unperturbed by the snow. "I _miss him_."

Something like pain spasmed across the phantom's face. "I know. And that is why I am going to get him back for you." His eyes steeled over with determination. "Right now."


	8. Chapter 8

"Right now? As in… _now_?"

Such a response would have merited Crowley a sarcastic response from the old Aziraphale, but the angel's phantom only smiled and said, "Yes, dear. Right now."

"Okay," Crowley said, mind zooming into hyperdrive. "Er…how?"

"Didn't you look at the book?" Aziraphale asked, cocking his head. "It makes it quite clear."

Crowley glanced down at the volume in his hands; the page it was open to was growing damp from the snowflakes falling and landing there. "…It's a book of folklore, Az, I really don't —"

"Well, you know what they say about folklore," the angel replied; "most of it is more or less true."

"I don't know of _anyone_ who says that."

Aziraphale ignored him. "Be a dear and turn to the chapter on Koschei the Deathless, it will explain everything to you."

Crowley obliged. " 'Koschei the Deathless, an evil wizard of Slavic folklore'…" The demon skimmed through the contents. "What is this? It says this guy placed 'his soul (or death), inside the eye of a needle, which is in an egg, which is in a duck, which is in a hare, which is stowed away in an iron or gold chest buried under an oak tree on the island of Buyan somewhere on the ocean'…What does this have to do with us?"

"Koschei is one of the most popular tales about a soul being placed into an object or creature for safekeeping," Aziraphale explained. "Other myths include liches, or wizards who attach their life force to phylacteries, and some Persian tales, including one of a mother who placed a piece of soul in a nose ring — just as I, or rather, Aziraphale, must have placed a piece of _his_ soul into _that_ ring." Here the phantom — no, the fragment Aziraphale's of soul — pointed to the ring on Crowley's finger.

"Oh," was all Crowley could manage to say. He'd been carrying around a bit of Aziraphale's _soul_ for the past three months.

He wished he could say that was the strangest thing he had ever done.

"So," the angel continued, "let's get that fuller piece of soul down from Heaven and back where it belongs."

The piece-of-Aziraphale walked over to the plot where his body was buried. He made a circular motion with his foot, but no circle formed in the dirt with its smattering of snow.

"Dearie me," he murmured; "I am simply too excited to keep solid enough to draw the ring — do you mind doing it?" he called to the demon.

Understanding was beginning to dawn in Crowley's mind, and he joined Aziraphale at the gravesite somewhat hesitantly.

"You want me — you know, a _demon_ — to draw a summoning circle. To summon an angel. From Heaven."

"Well, yes," The angel smiled at him. "If you don't mind."

"Right." Crowley stuck his heel in the dirt and swept it in a circular motion, leaving a perfectly round ring in the soil (supernatural beings are _much_ better at drawing circles than humans are; it comes naturally to them). "There you are."

"Thank you very much," the angel beamed. "Now, I expect we won't even _need_ the normal Cabala passages or even the candles, since we have three links here that Aziraphale can connect to: we've got me, of course, and his old body, and your love for him —"

Crowley choked, feeling his cheeks flush hot against the cold air as he coughed into his scarf.

"—so he should come right on down without any of the usual formalities," the fragment of angel went on, oblivious to the demon's embarrassment.

Aziraphale stepped into the circle and said the Words. Blue light beamed down from the heavens.

"Yes yes, who is it?" a peeved-sounding voice called briskly from the light. Crowley's all-too-human heart kicked up into a gallop.

The piece-of-Aziraphale motioned to the demon, urging him to talk.

"Er…hello? Az?" Crowley said awkwardly. "A-Aziraphale?"

"…Crowley?" Shock registered through the blue beam, which wavered slightly. " _Crowley?"_

"Yes. Aziraphale, it's me, I —"

"It's about bloody time!" the voice in the blue light snapped. "Get me out of here _right now_ , you useless demon."

Crowley could not stop the wide grin that stretched his cold-pinched cheeks. "We're on it, angel." He turned to the fragment of soul standing quietly by. "Er…how do we do this, exactly?"

" _CROWLEY!"_ Crowley's blood ran cold as a new voice rang out behind them.* _"YOU CONNIVING, MAGGOT-RIDDEN INGRATE!"_

*(Well, it always ran cold, but so the human expression went.)

Wishing with every muscle in his body that he did not have to turn, Crowley turned.

An elderly man with a bent back and wizened face was hobbling towards the trio: but rather than an old man's warble, the powerful voice of Screwtape, Duke of Hell, emanated from the figure's mouth.

" _I COME UP FROM HELL, GO TO ALL THE TROUBLE OF POSSESSING ONE OF THESE PATHETIC MEAT SACKS, TO PERFORM A SURPRISE CHECK ON YOU,"_ Screwtape roared, _"CERTAIN I'D BE RETURNING TO HELL WITH PLENTY OF GOOD THINGS TO WRITE INTO YOUR RECORDS…AND I FIND YOU FRATERNIZING WITH_ ANGELS _."_

"My lord," Crowley said hastily, "it really isn't what it looks like —"

" _SO THIS IS_ NOT _A BEAM FROM HEAVEN? COME NOW, CROWLEY, YOU'LL HAVE TO LIE BETTER THAN THAT,"_ his superior chided. " _WHAT ARE YOU? A DOUBLE AGENT? OHHH, CROWLEY, I VOUCHED FOR YOU. JUST YOU WAIT UNTIL YOU SEE WHAT TORTURES I HAVE IN STORE FOR YOU NOW…"_

"Wait, my lord, Screwtape, please, allow me to explain," Crowley spluttered. He paused an instant, gathering his thoughts together — now was no time for scrambled words. "You see, this is all part of a nefarious scheme I've been plotting for a while now, for Hell's good and Heaven's loss."

The demon inside the old man looked skeptical. " _ALL RIGHT, CROWLEY. SPEAK. YOU HAVE TWO EARTH-MINUTES TO CONVINCE ME_."

"Come this way, my lord," Crowley ushered the demon a ways away from the two Aziraphales. "Listen," he began, voice hushed, as if to keep the angels from hearing, "I am helping this angel escape from Heaven — against Heaven's will. You see, he has something of an…attachment to me, which I have been cultivating for centuries now."

" _AH."_ Screwtape nodded, realization dawning his aged host's face. " _FASCINATING…A DEMON, SEDUCING AN ANGEL. I CAN SEE HOW THIS WOULD BE IN HELL'S INTERESTS…"_

"Exactly!" Crowley said, latching on to his superior's words. "I intend to seduce the angel at last, and in the meantime, his presence on Earth means one less angel worshiping the Supreme Enemy in Heaven — see?"

" _FAIR ENOUGH,"_ Screwtape agreed. " _BUT WHAT OF HIS ACTIVITIES ON EARTH? HIS PRESENCE HERE CAN ONLY THWART YOUR EVIL DEEDS, CROWLEY."_

Crowley thought fast. "No, no, see, that's the beauty of it," he clarified, "while he is on Earth he'll have to avoid using his powers — keep under Heaven's radar, and all that. Otherwise, they'll send down a task force to scoop him right back up."

The wily bureaucrat was silent a moment, mulling over all that Crowley had said. " _ALL RIGHT, CROWLEY. YOU HAVE ME CONVINCED."_ His human host cracked a smile worthy of a madman's nightmare. " _IF THIS TURNS OUT AS YOU SAY, YOU WILL HAVE QUITE THE COMMENDATION — PERHAPS EVEN A PROMOTION. BUT IF IT FAILS,"_ Screwtape warned, " _I TRUST YOU KNOW THE CONSEQUENCES."_

"Of course, my lord," Crowley said, bowing his head.

" _GOOD._ " The host's jaw dropped open and reddish smoke poured from his mouth, bringing the acrid smell of brimstone. As the smoke dispersed amid the steadily falling snow, the old man crumpled to the ground.

Well, Crowley would deal with him in a bit. For now, he dragged the old man towards Duck Pond's cottage and settled him against the wall, out of range of the wind. Then, the demon hurried back to the gravesite where the piece-of-angel and the blue beam waited for him.

"Don't worry, I settled everything with Screwtape," Crowley informed them.

"Oh, good. And Aziraphale has explained to me how this works," the fragment of soul said. "It is quite simple, actually. I simply step into the beam, and Aziraphale does the rest — he will enter the world, while I take his place in Heaven."

"And…you _are_ sure you're okay with that, right?" Crowley asked. As desperate as he was to have Aziraphale, _his_ Aziraphale, back, he felt a pang of guilt at the fate he was assigning to this piece of the angel's soul.

"Of course he is," Aziraphale's voice in the beam interrupted. "I _designed_ him to enjoy Heaven — he'll be happy as a…whatever mollusk it is humans think are happy, up there."

"He's right, dear," the piece of soul said. "I'll be fine, don't you worry about me. Now, help me get the body unburied — Aziraphale will want somewhere to go when he's free from the beam."

Crowley performed a certain gesture over the plot of dirt. It levitated in the air, flowers and all, as the body rose up from the grave; then the soil lowered itself back down once the body had been extracted.

Corpses once inhabited by angels receive the same graces as Incorruptible Saints, resisting all forms of decay. Thus, the body of Aziraphale looked as fresh as it had _That Day_ three months back, though its sweater was rumpled and its trousers and hair were coated in dirt.

"Let's do this already, if you please," came Aziraphale's voice from the beam.

"Of course." The shard of soul offered Crowley a half-smile and then, without further ado, stepped into beam.

He instantly rose up until he was several feet off the ground, floating in a swathe of blue light.

For a moment, fear flashed across the fragment's face, then sorrow, and finally resignation. "Crowley!" he cried out, reaching out one hand. Without thinking, the demon grasped it. It was like wrapping one's fingers around a soap bubble, and like a soap bubble, the entire being popped under his touch, bursting into rainbows that dripped not downward but up, into the pearly sky.

" _I shall not forget you, Crowley_ ," the fading voice reverberated through the demon's core as one piece of Aziraphale's soul soared up into Heaven. The fuller piece of soul, in the meantime, coalesced into a kaleidoscopic sheet of light that whirled through the snow to bathe its old body in color. This swirl of light glowed around the edges of the body like a halo and then, gradually, sunk into its skin, imbuing it with life once again.

Aziraphale took in a deep, shuddering breath and opened his eyes. Crowley stood frozen for an instant, gaping, and then ran forward. He collapsed on his knees before the angel's half-reclining form and gathered him up in his arms.

"Aziraphale," he said, the word like a sob. " _Aziraphale_."

They held each other tight for a small eternity — a small, perfect eternity. Crowley marveled at the _solidness_ of the embrace: the angel was soft but undeniably _present_ beneath his touch, and no longer did the demon have to be afraid of him going anywhere.

"Crowley," Aziraphale said at last. "It is _freezing_ here."

The demon let out a shaky laugh. The tatters of the shirt his wings had broken through earlier were not doing much to keep out the cold. "Yeah. Let's get you somewhere warm, angel."

They helped each other up, and Aziraphale looked down at himself and grimaced. "I look like such a ruffian," he complained, swiping at the dirt on his clothing and shaking out his curls.

"I'd say you look pretty good for someone who's spent the last three months underground," Crowley noted. But Aziraphale wasn't listening, his eyes on the blue light still beaming down from Heaven.

"Probably shouldn't keep that open," the angel said dryly, smudging the circle in the dirt with his foot. The beam curled up on itself and vanished. "And who on earth is that?"

Crowley followed the angel's gaze to the old man huddled up beside the cottage wall. He was unconscious and the tip of his nose had gone blue.

"Oh, right — that was my boss's host. I suppose we should get him to shore," Crowley said.

They did get the old man to shore, and Crowley convinced a couple walking by to take him to a hospital — if he didn't have hypothermia, he would probably need to be treated for shock, at any rate: human bodies were not made to endure demonic possession unscathed.

That done, they made their way, hand in hand, to the Bentley.

"So, where should we go?" Crowley asked as he slid into the driver's seat, beaming like a love-struck teenager at his angel. He still had questions, but they could wait a while.

"Sushi," Aziraphale replied. "Take me to a sushi restaurant, dear — I have _such_ a craving."

Crowley shook his head fondly and stepped on the gas. He would drive his companion to _Japan_ for sushi if that was what he wanted. "One sushi restaurant, coming up."

Beethoven's "Don't Stop Me Now" vibrated through the Bentley as they sped away from St. James's Park.


	9. Chapter 9

"I can't believe we're having this argument less than two hours after I _raised you from the dead_."

"Exactly, I've been in Heaven the last three months, do you really think I have any quid on me?"

Aziraphale was lying. He could feel the weight of his wallet in his trouser pocket — but now that he was an angel on the lam, he felt even less obligation to tell the truth than usual.

" _Fine_. I'll pay," Crowley said. He made a show of sulkiness as he pulled bills from his wallet, but Aziraphale could read his aura like a book and knew the demon was enjoying bickering as much as he was.

It was just like old times.

Leaving behind an awe-struck itamae and staff, who had never seen one person down so many sushi rolls in one sitting, they made their way by unspoken agreement to Crowley's flat.

Crowley bustled about in the kitchen, making them cocoa, while Aziraphale wandered around the flat, taking everything in.

It really hadn't been that long, he reminded himself, but it felt like forever since he'd seen Crowley's plants, his living room, his meticulously made bed. It was as if, as the demon had once put it, he had been watching _The Sound of Music_ for the past few months — and had never quite reached the end. In Heaven, all else faded away against that endless stretch of song; emerging from a haze of "Climb every mountain," the world seemed more vivid than ever before — and yet there was an unreal quality to it, as if he were viewing everything through a veil.

They settled into the sofa, which offered them a good view of the snowflakes that danced in streetlights like spotlights outside the plant-festooned windows.

In the past, they had always maintained a healthy foot or so of space between them. Now, they could not be sitting closer together if they had been one body.

Warmth spread through Aziraphale's body, both from the mug in his hands and from where his side pressed into Crowley's, and he sighed contentedly.

"So…" Crowley said, and Aziraphale tried not to smile at the familiar nervous hitch in the demon's voice, "do you mind enlightening me more about how the he— how on earth we managed to successfully pull off that bait-and-switch against Heaven?"

They had begun this discussion at the sushi restaurant, but Aziraphale had been too distracted by the various flavors of raw fish (he had ordered one of everything on the menu) to go into as much detail as the demon wanted. All he had really gotten around to so far was to complain about how long it had taken Crowley to figure things out and rescue him.

"Of course, dear. Where should we start?"

"First off, are you _sure_ the other angels aren't going to notice that only, what, a tenth of your soul is actually left up there?"

"Mmm, more like a fiftieth of my soul," the angel corrected, sipping at his cocoa. "This is delicious. Do you _know_ what it's like to go without chocolate for three full months?"

"Okay, so hardly _any_ of you is actually up where you're supposed to be — don't you think they'll _notice_?"

Aziraphale placed the hand that was not holding his mug over Crowley's. "It's like you were telling me at the restaurant, dear. I'll simply have to keep out of the radar."

"Under."

"What?"

"It's und— never mind." Crowley shifted a little. "And you're okay with that? With avoiding using your powers for, well, for ever?"

"It certainly won't be fun," Aziraphale pouted, "having to warm up tea the human way and oh, goodness, _refill_ it the human way, but I'll manage."

Crowley snorted. "Of _course_ that's what you'd be worried about — not your duty to serving humanity. Tea."

"I am no longer a commissioned agent of Heaven," Aziraphale said loftily. "Besides, you and I both know that the best way to help or hurt the humans is to leave them be and let them help or hurt themselves."

"Wow," Crowley said. "Cold. But true. All right, next question — how did you come up with this plan, anyway? The whole soul-swapping thing?"

"Let's see," Aziraphale mused, taking another sip of his tea; he was in no hurry to break this scene, the snow whirling outside and the two of them cuddled close together indoors. "A message came from Heaven a few days before they took me, letting me know that I was being decommissioned…I resigned myself to it, for a moment. But then my eyes alighted on the book I'd read the night before — _The Return of the King_ , from a lovely series by one Mr. Tolkien, do you know it?"

"…You were inspired by Sauron." Disbelief rang through the demon's voice. "You, an _angel_ , taking advice from the Dark Lord Sauron. …That's the bloody best thing I've heard all day."

"Oh, hush," Aziraphale huffed. "So then I researched instances of the deed actually being done — placing a piece of your soul in an object for safekeeping — and, well, there you have it."

"So you had to do some pretty dark magic to make this work, huh?" Aziraphale was not sure whether to be vexed or flattered by the admiration in his companion's eyes.

"Come now, terms like 'dark magic' are so, well _human_ ," he settled for saying; "you know it's _intent_ that constitutes the sin."

"If we're judging based on intent," Crowley jibed, " _your_ intent was to trick Heaven and stay on Earth against their wishes."

"I don't see you complaining." Aziraphale jabbed his elbow into Crowley's ribs, making the demon laugh.

"I'm really not," Crowley said, ruffling the angel's curls. "It's just so…" the demon began, shyly, trailing off and then continuing, "it's so nice to actually _feel_ you here. As something solid."

"It is," Aziraphale agreed, nuzzling into Crowley's touch.

"Oh, and I wanted to ask," Crowley said, "how do you think _he_ is doing, up there? The other piece of you."

The angel shifted slightly, sinking a little further into the sofa cushions. "He should be all right," he said. "I designed him carefully. …Why are you so concerned, anyhow?" Aziraphale asked suspiciously.

Crowley laughed. "Are you jealous of me being worried about a part of _you_ , angel?"

"Don't be silly," Aziraphale said coolly.

"Hey, it's all right Az — I'm a little worried about him, but I'm mostly just overjoyed to have you back."

Crowley spoke so earnestly Aziraphale felt his cheeks flushing. "Well, no need to worry about him — when I was picking out portions of my soul to feed into the ring, I only selected traits suitable to Heaven. I gave him no memory of sushi, for instance, or even my bookshop, just so he wouldn't miss it."

"But he remembered _me_."

"I know. I…wasn't able to filter you out of my memory," Aziraphale admitted. "You are one of its most enduring features, after all."

They were quiet for a while. A strange energy filled the air around them; Aziraphale was not quite sure what it was, or even whether Crowley felt it too, but he was pretty sure he liked it.

"Oh!" he exclaimed after a few minutes, remembering he had a question of his own. "So how did you get that boss of yours to leave us alone, when he caught you talking to me from the beam?"

The old mischievous smile that the angel had not seen in all too long played across Crowley's lips. "Oh, you know…I told him I was in the process of seducing you," he said with a wink.

"Ah, well, perhaps in good time," Aziraphale said, offering the demon a coy look of his own.

Crowley, who had just taken a big gulp from his mug, sprayed cocoa everywhere.

Aziraphale had taken utmost care when extracting pieces of his soul for the ring, pouring in the parts of him that enjoyed peace and meditation and reveled at the splendor of God, while avoiding any fragments of himself that would miss Earth too much. But there was one aspect of himself that, try as he might, he had not managed to keep out of the ring: his affection for a certain demon.

The simple fact of the matter was that there was not even the tiniest splinter of his soul that did _not_ contain love for Crowley.

And thus the portion of Aziraphale that now spent his long endless Day up in Heaven missed Crowley with all his spirit.

Even so, he _was_ content. He had been imbued with the most selfless parts of Aziraphale, and so he bore his separation from the demon with serenity, understanding that he had acted in a way that would allow Crowley to be happy — which was what _really_ mattered, after all.

The Divinity would just have to get by without one angel's full concentration focused on worship — keeping his head towards that Great Light, the angel's eyes were cast ever towards Earth. (As it happened, the Divinity did not mind at all, finding the whole situation rather touching.)

Years rolled by below him, transforming the surface of the world again and again but leaving two small figures more or less unchanged. He watched as they found themselves a place in the South Downs, where they would be out of the way of the eyes of Heaven. Watched them cook together and bicker together, sleep and laugh and take long walks hand in hand. He smiled every time he noticed how the demon always kept a certain ring, its blue stone dull now and cracked down the middle in its onyx band, on his finger.

Crowley was happy. And so this piece of Aziraphale, high above, was just as happy as the rest of his soul down below.

He might be a little broken — just as the demon he loved was, in many ways, a little broken — but for the first time in Eternity, Aziraphale felt whole.


End file.
